Rough And Deadly (A Much Winchmoor Mystery Book 2)

by Paula Williams

  “I’m not sure where he is,” I went on. “I’ve been that busy I’ve hardly looked up. He may have gone up to the allotment…”

  “Don’t bother trying to cover for him,” she said wearily. “We both know where he is – and with whom.”

  “Look, Mum.” I took a deep breath, in the full knowledge that what I was about to say was extremely risky, but I chanced it anyway. “You shouldn’t let Tanya wind you up like that. And you know what she’s like. She’ll flirt with anything that’s got a pulse, if it’s male.”

  “Except your dad’s not likely to have a pulse when I catch up with him,” she growled.

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, I think Dad escaped to the pub to get away from her. There was nothing more to it than that.”

  “Nothing more to what than what?” she demanded, all trace of weariness gone.

  Whoops! Didn’t think that one through.

  “I could hear the two of them in here giggling away like a couple of school kids,” she went on. “So what exactly was going on? People don’t say ‘there’s nothing more to it than that’ for no reason.”

  “Nothing was going on, honestly.” I couldn’t make things any worse so pushed on. “Look, I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but why do you put up with Tanya? She’s had everyone at each other’s throats ever since she got here. Why don’t you just tell her to push off?”

  Mum stared at me for what seemed like an hour. Then she took a deep breath and leaned forward as if she was about to confide in me. At the same time, we heard the click of the front gate.

  “You’re absolutely right, Katie,” she said quietly as she straightened up. “You shouldn’t be saying it.”

  I decided I didn’t want to be around when Dad came in so I picked up my laptop and escaped to my on-the-floor bed, in the store cupboard that used to be our spare room. I balanced my laptop on a carton of shampoo bottles and went back to my potholes.

  I took my phone out and saw, to my annoyance, that it was completely dead. I’d meant to charge it when I got back from Elsie’s but in all the excitement had forgotten to do so.

  I plugged it in and after a few minutes it came back to life with a ping to say I had a voice mail. To my surprise, it was from Will.

  He doesn’t normally leave messages and I wondered what was urgent enough to make him change the habit of a lifetime.

  “It’s Will here,” he said, like I wouldn’t recognise his voice. “Katie – oh no, sorry, I mean Kat. I keep forgetting that’s what I’m supposed to call you.” He gave a self-conscious laugh. “Anyway, Kat,” he went on, laying heavy emphasis on the name. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch.”

  My heart gave a worried leap. Why was he being so polite? And why call me Kat? Even if it was in an almost snarky kind of way. He always called me Katie, never Kat, because he knew it wound me up.

  I hated it when Will acted out of character. It worried me.

  I swallowed hard and tried not to think about pretty blonde vets. Whatever the reason for this ultra-polite call, it had to be bad news. Was I about to get the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ brush off again? First Ratface, now Will?

  At least Will was telling me (almost) to my face, and not leaving me to find out the hard way, like Ratface had.

  “I’ve been crazy busy this week and I’m really sorry about last Saturday night,” Will’s message went on. “Lambing’s all but done now so I’ve fixed up a real treat for you for tomorrow night to make up for it. It’s going to be a surprise but you’ll love it. Wear something smart and don’t eat too much lunch. That’s all I’m going to say. I’ll pick you up about seven tomorrow night, ok… er, Kat.”

  I started breathing again. Now I knew I wasn’t about to be dumped, I played the message again and listened more carefully this time. Wear something smart? Don’t eat too much lunch? On the face of it, it sounded exciting.

  But knowing Will as well as I did, I figured the reality would probably turn out to be a pork pie and a pint at the rugby club, with a packet of wine gums that had probably been sitting around in the glove compartment of his Land Rover since last Christmas for dessert.

  Even so, it beat staying in with my parents for a second consecutive Saturday night, especially if Tanya was still going to be around.

  Chapter Nine

  I stayed upstairs for the rest of the afternoon, not even coming out when I heard Tanya clip-clop up the stairs and start banging around in my room.

  After a while, the banging stopped and there was a knock on my door.

  “Can you be a love and help me down with these, sweetie?” she asked. She pointed at the faux leopardskin suitcases piled on my bed.

  My desk now looked like the cosmetics counter at Boots at the end of the first day of the January sales. Most of the lotions and potions had gone, leaving only a few used cleansing wipes, an almost-empty bottle of bubblegum pink nail polish and a can of very fancy hair spray.

  “You’re leaving?” I tried, for the sake of politeness, not to sound too pleased at the prospect.

  She nodded. “Now, I’ve left you some silver highlighter that I think would work really well for you. Don’t overdo it, though. As I always say, less is more.”

  Obviously the advice didn’t extend to her own collection of jingly bracelets or the mascara that was so thickly applied, it looked like a couple of black hairy caterpillars had settled on her eyelids and were squaring up to each other every time she blinked.

  Still, it was a nice gesture on her part so I thanked her.

  She shrugged. “Don’t thank me. I was going to bin it. It’s a tad over the top for my taste. But I thought it might tone your hair colour down and make you look a bit less like a Halloween party reject.”

  I was so made up at the thought of getting rid of her, I let the insult pass. Besides, the silver highlighter sounded intriguing. And it was a very pricey brand, way out of my budget.

  “Are you going back to Uncle Richard?” I asked.

  “Good Lord, no.” Her eyes widened in horror at the prospect. “I wasn’t joking when I said my future plans are, for the moment at least, here in Much Winchmoor. Richard features nowhere in those plans, except, of course, in reference to my divorce settlement. And if he thinks he’s going to weasel out of paying me what’s rightly mine, he’s got another think coming.”

  “So, if you’re not going back to him, where are you going?”

  “I’m moving in to the Winchmoor Arms. It’s just until I’ve got something that’s in the pipeline finalised. It’s only a matter of time but until then I’ve just had a long chat with Mary, the landlady, and she’s agreed to let me have one of her rooms at a very fair rent. In return for which, I shall be availing her of the complete range of my skills – hair styling, makeup, manicures. The full salon treatment. I might even include a facial. Goodness knows,” she pulled a face, “Mary could do with one. I don’t think the woman has ever heard of cleanse, tone, moisturise.”

  “She’s very busy,” I murmured. “Runs the place single-handed.”

  “A woman should always find time to look her best, no matter how busy,” she said. “And while I’m dispensing free hair and beauty advice, Katie, here’s some for you. Forget the spikes. They’re so last year. Your hair would look much better teased into little feathery fronds around your face. I could do it for you, if you like? No need to wait for my salon to open. Come to my room at the pub. Only don’t tell your mother.”

  “Thanks, but I couldn’t do that. As for Mary, she’s one of Mum’s best customers.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I shouldn’t have said them, as a gleam of triumph flickered in her eyes. “Aunty Tanya, you can’t. Families don’t do that to each other.”

  “I think you’ll find that your mother and I are no relation whatsoever,” she said crisply as she picked up her Stella McCartney bag and shrugged it on to her shoulder. “We merely happened to have married two brothers. And now I’m about to divorce one of them that severs the relationship
completely, wouldn’t you say? Now, be a dear and help me downstairs with these cases. I would ask your father but he seems to have disappeared.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’ll do it,” I said quickly before she could change her mind about leaving.

  ***

  I’d hoped Tanya’s departure would ease the tension between Mum and Dad but, if anything, it got worse. By the next morning, the long heavy silences had got longer and heavier and the only way they communicated was through me.

  I looked back on the previous Saturday with nostalgia. Watching the Eurovision Song Contest with them had been as exciting as a wet Wednesday in Weston-Super-Mare but at least they’d been talking to each other then, if only to argue about who deserved null points.

  I found myself actually looking forward to going to Elsie’s, even though she’d assured me that Saturday was the day Millicent Lydiard always turned out the airing cupboard. But half an hour before I was due there she phoned.

  “Don’t come this morning,” she announced. “I shan’t be here.”

  “Oh, right.” I was disappointed (a) because I needed the cash and (b) because I’d been hoping to get a bit more background information on Margot from her. “Are you going anywhere nice?”

  There was a pause. Elsie believed information gathering was strictly a one way process and I thought for a moment she was going to tell me to mind my own business.

  “I’m off to my son’s for lunch,” she said eventually.

  “That’s nice. What about Prescott? Would you like me to walk him?”

  “No, he’s coming with me,” she said with a wicked chuckle. “It annoys the hell out of my daughter-in-law. She hates him and spends the whole time running around after him, brushing dog hairs off anything he’s been anywhere near. Oh yes, and don’t bother coming in tomorrow either. I don’t pay double time for Sunday working.”

  I spent the rest of the day up in my room checking out the job market, both in The Chronicle and online. Nothing. I checked out my work schedule for next week. Again nothing. I went back to my notebook to see what, apart from the piece on Margot, I could submit for the coming week. Another big fat zero.

  If I couldn't get together enough background for my piece on Margot, the only thing I could hope for in the paper this week was my report of the potholes meeting, a sure contender for most boring piece of journalism of the year award, following Mike’s snippy comments about padding. It was just as well I’d cycled to the school hall where the meeting had been held. If I’d driven there, the linage money wouldn’t have covered the cost of the petrol.

  I really needed to work on him to persuade him to give me more assignments. I was that hard up, if my bike got a puncture, I’d have to increase my overstretched overdraft to buy a puncture repair kit.

  I turned from the depressing state of my finances to my next big problem. One that had been bugging me for some time.

  What on earth was I going to wear tonight?

  Will’s advice to wear something ‘smart’ was not as helpful as it sounded. Usually, his idea of dressing ‘smart’ was to swap his muddy wellies for a pair of trainers. I’d tried several times to ask him where we were going, and to be a bit more specific when it came to his definition of ‘smart,’ but, as always, he was out of communication range.

  In the end, I settled on a skirt I’d bought in the January sales and hadn’t had a chance to wear yet. It was short, black and clingy and looked really cool with my spiky-heeled boots. I matched it with a pink, sparkly top and long, tasselled earrings that brushed my shoulders when I moved my head.

  I’d taken Tanya’s advice, too, and washed the purple and orange out of my hair, added a few streaks of her posh silver highlighter and finger-dried it into a light, choppy style that framed my face. I checked it out in the mirror, ready to ditch it and go back to my usual spiky style, but what do you know? Tanya was right. It looked really cool.

  Much as it pained me to admit it, she knew her stuff when it came to modern, sassy hairstyles. I’d have been worried for Mum’s business if I thought her customers were in fact looking for anything remotely modern, least of all sassy. Most of them were still firmly locked into the regular monthly perm, interspersed with shampoo and sets and the occasional Blue Hyacinth rinse.

  Usually when I’m going out it takes me less than ten minutes to get ready. But that night, it took for ever. Partly because it was so nice to have my bedroom back that I was actually glad to spend a little more time in it. But also because it was better than being downstairs and battling the permafrost whenever my parents happened to be in the same room.

  As I took one last look at myself in the mirror, I was pretty pleased with the overall effect. Even more pleased by Will’s reaction when I opened the door to him that evening.

  “Wow, Katie… Kat!” The look in his eyes sent my pulse – and my confidence – soaring, and I forgave him for making my name sound like a chocolate bar. “You look…”

  “Yes?” I prompted when his voice faded away. He dragged his hand through his hair as he searched for the word.

  Gorgeous? Hot? Sexy?

  “You look… um, you look good.”

  It would have to do. Will didn’t do long, flowery speeches. It was one of the things I liked about him, but also one of the things that annoyed the hell out of me about him at the same time.

  OK, maybe I didn’t want the long, flowery speeches (Ratface had been good at them and look where that got me), but a short, not-quite-so-flowery one would have done very nicely.

  But, for now, ‘um, you look good,’ would have to do.

  Besides, he um, looked good himself, especially the way his hair stood up in little tufts where he’d raked his hand through it, giving him that tousled, bed-head look that sent my thoughts spiralling.

  And his eyes had those little white fans in each corner because of all the time he spent outdoors, squinting against the sunlight. He was also wearing chinos and a crisp blue shirt that matched his eyes. Did he do that deliberately, I wondered?

  But whatever, the overall effect was a far cry from his usual faded jeans and T-shirt.

  “So, is this smart enough for the rugby club?” I asked. “Or do you want me to go back and change into a full-length ball gown?”

  “Who said anything about the rugby club?”

  “OK, then,” I said, as I opened the passenger door of his battered old Land Rover and, out of habit born of painful experience, brushed my hand across the seat before trusting my brand-new skirt to it. Short, black and covered in straw and other agricultural unmentionables was so not a good look. “So where are we going?”

  “There’s this restaurant in Dintscombe,” he said. “It comes very well recommended, so I thought we’d give it a try.”

  “It’s not the Friendly Fryer, is it?” I had grim memories of the last greasy burger I’d had from there five years ago. My digestive system still hadn’t recovered.

  “No, that’s long gone. It’s a kebab shop now.”

  I glanced across at him. “Oh my God, Will, I haven’t got myself all togged up like this to go to a kebab shop, have I? I think on balance I prefer the rugby club.”

  He sighed. “What do you take me for? I’m not going to tell you where we’re going now. You’ll to have to wait until we get there.”

  He parked the Land Rover in the main car park in Dintscombe and we set off along the High Street. I was, as usual, almost running to keep up with him until someone called his name and he stopped so abruptly I cannoned into him.

  “Hi, Will. How’s the ewe today?”

  “Oh, hi, Anna. She’s fine now, thanks. And the twins are thriving. You did a great job, thanks. Oh, yes—” he went on as I nudged him in the back, a tad harder than I perhaps should have done. “This is Katie. Katie, this is Anna. She’s…”

  “The new vet.” I forced a smile. I could have said ‘the pretty young blonde vet,’ as indeed she was all of those things, and then some. But I didn’t.

  “Hi, Anna. And
my name’s Kat, by the way. Not Katie.” I added, as I glared at Will.

  “Hi Kat, great to meet you. How did you know I was a vet, by the way?” She gave a soft, low laugh. “Don’t tell me I’ve still got mud on my shoes, or something worse?”

  “Nothing like that. I just happen to work for a witch who knows everything that goes on in Much Winchmoor and the surrounding areas before it happens.”

  She gave a cute little puzzled frown and wrinkled her tiny, tip-tilted nose. She was, as Elsie had said, pretty. But it was more than just pretty. I could have handled that. She was small, dainty and feminine and, far from having muddy shoes, they were elegant and stylish and made my spiky boots look like snowshoes.

  And, try as I might – and believe me, I tried really, really hard – I couldn’t envisage her with her hand up a sheep’s bottom.

  ‘Gentlemen prefer blondes,’ Elsie had said and, from the look in Will’s eyes, I could see where she was coming from. Ok, so my hair was no longer the colour of a pickled beetroot, but neither was it soft and smooth, like spun silk. I felt clumpy and awkward standing next to Anna and my clothes, which I’d thought were fun and exciting when I picked them out, now seemed silly and over the top.

  “Well, I mustn’t keep you,” she breathed. “You two look as if you’re off somewhere. Anywhere nice?”

  “Yeah, I hope so,” Will said. “We’re going to try out Michael’s, seeing as it came so highly recommended.”

  She gave a small, tinkly and oh-so-feminine laugh. How did she do that? If I tried it, it would come out as somewhere between a hiccup and a sneeze. I caught a glimpse of the two of us mirrored in a shop window and realised I looked like a cart horse standing next to a thoroughbred. I moved as far away from her as I could, and got my heel wedged in a crack in the pavement as I did so.